


Hush

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, aftermath of rape, and gold needs a saint okay, archie is a saint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5495990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archie did not plan to spend his night at the hospital, waiting for Mr. Gold to be released.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mr. Gold was the richest man in Storybrooke, with a closet full of tailored suits and silk shirts, but he was dressed in nothing but a too-large sweater and his boxers when he stumbled into the emergency room Thursday night. It was December and there was fresh snow on the ground -- if he hadn’t run head-first into Archie Hopper out in the alley, Gold wouldn’t have even made it to the hospital doors. 

Archie was walking home after work, and he only turned toward the alleyway because he could hear someone’s feet sliding on the pavement. He didn’t have time to recognize the person walking toward him;  Mr. Gold tumbled out of the shadows and ran straight into Archie. The bigger man rocked backward, reflexively caught Gold by the arms, noticed how little Mr. Gold was wearing, and then the gash across his face, and then, after noticing those two things, finally recognized the man he was holding up.

“Mr. Gold?” said Archie, eyes wide. The other man sniffed and tried to back away, but his knees gave out instead, and he sunk in a controlled fall to the ground. Archie went with him, refusing to let go of Mr. Gold’s arms; he could feel the slush and snow melting into his trouser-legs, and the thought of how cold Mr. Gold must be nearly froze his mind.

“Mr. Gold, you’re hardly dressed,” said Archie. He realized before he was done speaking that this was probably the least-relevant thing he could say. Gold was covering his face but Archie’s fingers were still wrapped around the other man’s wrists, and he used this leverage to pull the Gold hands away as gently as he could, so he could get a look at the cut. One of Mr. Gold’s eyes was sealed closed with blood, some of it drying, some of it still wet. His breath was coming fast and shallow.

“OK,” said Archie with a slow exhale, trying to calm himself down. “OK. Mr. Gold, you’re going to be fine. Can you take a few deep breaths for me?”

Mr. Gold dipped his head. He was shaking from the cold. “Frank?” he said, his voice little more than a gasp for air. He wrestled one of his hands from Archie’s loose grasp and brought it up to his face, tried to hide the fact that he was crying.

“No, not Frank,” said Archie; he forced all the questions he had out of his brain. “Concentrate on breathing, OK? Take a deep breath for me and hold it for a few seconds. Can you do that?”

This time Mr. Gold wrestled his other hand free as well. He wiped blood from his cheeks and tried, failed, to take a deep breath. He tried again, and again, with Archie murmuring as many comforting platitudes as possible, and on the fourth try the lump in his throat disappeared and he finally drew a full breath..

“Good,” said Archie firmly. In ordinary circumstances, he would give Gold a few more minutes to relax, but there was a blue tint to the smaller man’s skin already, and it probably wasn’t best for him to sit in the snow. “Good. Keep breathing -- let’s try and stand up, OK?”

He pulled Mr. Gold to his feet.

“Let’s get to the corner,” Archie said as they shuffled down the near-deserted streets, Gold leaning on him heavily. “I’ll call a cab -- hang on.”

He helped Mr. Gold stand against the brick wall of a building on the corner, made sure the other man was steady before he stepped away. Archie fished his cell phone from his pocket and found the number in his contacts labeled ‘Taxi.’ The company’s operator informed him that a cab would be to their location in ten minutes.

“Thanks,” said Archie. He hung up, looked back at Mr. Gold. The other man was shivering, his eyes closed. Well, something had to be done about that. Archie slipped off the coat he was wearing and approached Mr. Gold, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. Mr. Gold glanced up at him, face blank.

“Here,” said Archie, gesturing with the coat. A moment passed, and Mr. Gold pushed away from the wall. He staggered slightly, and Archie caught him, placing the heavy coat around Mr. Gold’s shoulders. “Sorry I can’t do anything for your legs,” he said. “Cab should be here in about ten minutes.”

Mr. Gold nodded, his good eye sliding shut again. Archie studied him worriedly; he leaned against the wall as well, his shoulder touching Mr. Gold’s.

“Someone attacked you?” he guessed, hoping that conversation would keep Gold awake. Mr. Gold hummed tunelessly, a quiet affirmation. It wasn’t very surprising, to be honest. Mr. Gold had made a lot of enemies over the years, and while most were smart enough to stay in line, it was inevitable that eventually someone would get stupid and just snap.

“Did you recognize them?” asked Archie. Mr. Gold swayed a little, leaning more heavily on Archie.

“It was my partner,” he said. Archie frowned, trying to think of who that might be. He wasn’t aware of Mr. Gold having any business partners -- there were people he collaborated with, of course, and people he sponsored. The DA, the mayor, the sheriff. Countless people, but --

Archie remembered that Mr. Gold was wearing boxers and a sweater instead of his usual tailored suit and silk shirts. His face reddened as his eyes trailed down and he saw the bruises, the blood, the drying cum on Mr. Gold’s legs.

_ That _ kind of partner, then.

“He attacked you in your house?” asked Archie. Mr. Gold nodded solemnly, his gaze stuck somewhere across the street.

“He took my car keys,” said Mr. Gold, “when he left. So I tried to walk.”

_ You didn’t think to call someone? _ Archie thought, but he swallowed the words. Who would Gold call? He didn’t have any friends, and he was probably too proud to call the police for help. There was no use in making him feel stupid. Archie felt bad for even thinking that.

“Are you … out?” he asked instead, a pale attempt at small talk.

“Not really,” said Mr. Gold. His nose wrinkled. “It’s not a secret, though, really.”

Archie thought the rest of the town would beg to differ. Mr. Gold was a notoriously private man -- charming when he wanted to be, witty and intriguing, but secretive. Nobody knew anything about him, even the people who were up there at the top with him. He’d shown up in town ten years ago, a quiet man with a soft accent, and he’d managed to become well-known without making any friends, managed to obtain property and make political alliances with no experience to speak of, managed to dominate their city in no time at all.

A cab rounded the corner, headlights shining through the flurries that had just begun to fall. Archie grabbed Mr. Gold by the arm and helped him over; the inside of the car was stifling hot, but Archie found himself appreciating it today. Mr. Gold’s eyes were fluttering closed before they pulled away from the curb, and Archie nudged him awake, worried about the possibility of concussions.

“Take us to the hospital, please,” he told the cabdriver.

“The walk-in clinic,” Mr. Gold objected in a murmur. Archie looked at him questioningly and Gold gave a thin smile. “Our lovely mayor. We’re on the board of directors for the hospital together. She might hear about it.”

“They’re not allowed to tell anyone anything,” Archie said. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality won’t deter Regina,” said Mr. Gold. He closed his good eye again, and Archie gave him a light shake. He accepted the glare he got with good grace.

“To the walk-in clinic, then,” he told the taxi driver. “Quickly, please.”

The cab accelerated.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Gold’s legs gave out as soon as they entered the clinic, and Archie -- caught off-guard -- couldn’t keep him up. They sank to the floor a moment before two nurses ran to meet them. The clinic was empty this late at night -- it was creeping up on two a.m. -- and Archie sent up a brief prayer of thanks for that. The nurses helped Mr. Gold to his feet with an abundance of gentleness, though one was already spewing a stream of nervous worries.

“Sir, are you injured? Can you speak?” he said, evidently unexperienced. “Did someone hurt you? Are you--”

“You’re a nurse, not a reporter,” said Mr. Gold irritably. “Quit questioning me.”

He tried and failed to stand on his own; the nurses stepped back for a moment, willing to let him try. It was Archie who dragged Gold to his feet and over to the nearest chair.

“I’ll go get Dr. Merq,” said one of the nurses, hurrying down the hall. “Call the Crisis Center, Arnold.”

The younger nurse nodded and plastered himself to the telephone at the front desk, murmuring into the receiver. Archie wandered a little ways down the hall, reading the plaques on the doors. There were only three examination rooms; he knocked on one and got no answer, and since neither of the nurses were giving him any instruction, decided to just go ahead and move Gold there. He sat Gold down on a chair in the middle of the room; he recoiled away as soon as his back hit it, grimacing in pain.

“God,” said Archie. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -- well --”

Mr. Gold covered his bad eye and shifted in his seat with a noise of discomfort. “I’m fine,” he said. “You can go now.”

It was freezing cold in the room, hardly better than the snowstorm outside. Archie looked around for a thermostat and couldn’t find one; he lowered himself into a chair opposite Gold.

“The nurse outside said he was calling the Crisis Center,” Archie recalled aloud. “Do you know what that means, or--?”

Gold gave a jerky shrug. Archie’s mouth had suddenly become quite dry; he would give anything for a bottle of water.

“Well, uh, it means that -- well, they probably just -- um, just saw your … your legs,” he said. He swallowed hard. “That is, I mean, the -- the, uh --”

Eyebrows furrowed, Gold looked down at himself and saw the dried cum on his thighs. He became very still, hardly even seeming to breathe.

“So, they -- they probably called for a victim advocate,” Archie said. “That’s, um, someone who can … well, go through the rape kit with you. If you want one.”

“The what?” Gold said. His voice was a lot softer now than it normally was; at some point in the night, it had lost the inauthentic slyness he used to make sales. For some inexplicable reason, Archie felt his cheeks turning red.

“A rape kit,” he said. He thought about explaining, but he only had the vaguest idea what a rape kit entailed. And besides, that’s what the victim advocate was for. “They’ll send someone over, probably a woman. And she’ll explain things to you and, uh, and stay with you, through the exam, if you want.”

There was a long pause. It seemed like neither of them could think of anything to say.

“Okay,” Gold said eventually, his voice small. 

They didn’t have much time for awkward silences; there was a knock on the door a moment later and Dr. Merq stepped in, a short man only slightly taller than Mr. Gold. He stroked his beard and smiled at the room, looking more nervous than anything. His smile twitched when he caught sight of Mr. Gold. He opened his mouth to speak, and then caught sight of Archie and changed his mind about whatever he was going to say.

“Dr. Hopper,” he said instead, “could you leave the room, please?”

Archie just nodded; he glanced at Mr. Gold as he left and thought about saying something -- something nice, or comforting -- but he wasn’t sure Gold would appreciate it, and he wasn’t sure it was his place to offer comfort, anyway. He could hear Dr. Merq’s voice saying, “Well, let’s look at that eye,” just before the door closed.

“Jesus,” Archie breathed.

* * *

 

It was hard to explain how someone got away with raping the most powerful man in town -- the man who pulled all the strings, the man who manipulated politicians from the shadows. But in the end, maybe it wasn’t all that complicated.

First of all, it had to do with  _ tone _ . Sheriff Graham would deny that, but tone was where the first judgment was made; when the police officers heard Mr. Gold’s flat, unaffected voice, the roots of disbelief dug into their brains and stuck there. Mr. Gold was emotionless at the best of times; he ranged from completely blank to scathingly sarcastic, but that was the height of it, yet somehow the policemen assumed that even Mr. Gold would get upset after a rape.

Next of all was, of course, the testimony. Though the physical evidence showed without a doubt that sex of some sort had occurred, it was difficult to pin down who had done it and whether or not there had been consent. With slow and stumbling words, Mr. Gold had given them his first description of the perpetrator -- a tall man of average build, brown hair flecked with grey, a short beard, hazel eyes -- and then he’d stopped, blinked at nothing, and said, “I’m sorry, I was confused. I’m describing the wrong man.”

He refused to give a corrected testimony; the DNA samples found on his body matched Gold’s partner, but the description he gave did not.

Third, rape was a bad thing, the policemen could agree, but none of them were really sure if it could be called rape -- or even an assault -- when both parties were in a relationship, and when both were men. What if they went and arrested this man, Mr. Gold’s ‘boyfriend,’ and it turned out they’d been having sex, consensually, and a later argument had turned it into ‘rape’? Could they justify imprisoning an innocent man?

God, Archie wanted to punch them. And he would’ve too, if they weren’t police and if it didn’t seem an awful lot like Mr. Gold didn’t  _ want _ anyone arrested. There were no articles in the newspaper about it, and after just a week, Mr. Gold had moved back into his old house with his abusive boyfriend, and no one seemed especially upset about it.

For nearly a month, Archie lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, and fumed about how terrible the world was, that no one in town would do a thing to stop someone from getting hurt. Then one day, those nighttime thoughts followed him into the morning and he realized with a jolt that he hadn’t been doing anything either. He couldn’t stop the wave of heat that rushed to his face; in the span of a second, he was plotting out what he could do to help in his spare time.

In the hour he normally spent watching TV before work, Archie hurried out to the general store, armed with all the cash he could find at home and an old basket that’d been holding balls of yarn. He bought anything that caught his eye as comforting or pleasant, arranged them all in the car and then arranged them a second time when the drive to work disrupted them.

He spent the next few hours of work daydreaming about what was coming next. He’d use his lunch break to visit Mr. Gold, hand over the basket of goodies if he was home. And if he wasn’t, but his partner was, Archie would ask for a fictional person -- “Is Gloria here?” -- and pretend he had the wrong house. Then he’d try later.

_ A sound plan _ , Archie commended himself. He’d skip lunch -- though he was trying to get rid of them, the echoes of his mother’s voice saying ‘you need to lose weight’ were still trapped in his head. When his break rolled around, Archie jumped in his car and spent the drive chanting body-positive mantras in his head.

He rolled down the street and Mr. Gold’s house, the lovely pink Victorian, came into view. There was a car in the driveway, Mr. Gold’s sleek black Cadillac, and Archie decided to park down the street rather than risk scratching it.

He stopped the car, gathered the basket in his arms, tried to swallow down his nervousness. He was certain Mr. Gold wouldn’t be home, that his mysterious partner would answer the door instead. That he would see right through Archie’s stupid lies. But he climbed the steps anyway, took a deep, deep breath and knocked.

Ten seconds passed. Almost like a flashback, Archie could suddenly smell Halloween candy and greasepaint, could hear his father telling him to ‘give the old people ten seconds before you knock again, kiddo, they’re pretty slow.’ Archie remembered himself at nine years old, dressed as a pirate and standing before someone else’s door, holding his breath and counting in his head. One. Two. Three. Four--

Mr. Gold opened the door.

Archie blinked at him. A beat passed. “Uh, hi,” said Archie. He was still blinking. It had been almost a month since they last saw each other, and the cut across Mr. Gold’s face must have been deeper than Archie thought. It was starting to scar, but it was almost overshadowed by the bruise rising on Mr. Gold’s cheek, by the darker shadows around his neck. Those were a bit more recent.

Archie cleared his throat and shifted the gift basket in his hands. “C-can I come in?” he asked, and when Mr. Gold only looked at him, he hastened to add, “If -- if that’s OK with you, I mean. It’s just, it’s a little awkward standing out here on the step.”

Mr. Gold didn’t nod or shake his head; his eyes slid away and he opened the door a little wider, turning sideways so Archie could slip past him into the hall.

“Sorry I didn’t come by sooner,” said Archie. “I was -- uh, I thought I’d, you know, give you some time first.”

He padded carefully to the end of the corridor, where it splintered off into two rooms, a kitchen and a living room, with a staircase in the middle and another winding hall behind that. After a moment’s thought, Archie entered the kitchen and set his basket down on the pristine marble counter.

“You’re the one who brought me to the hospital,” said Mr. Gold in a toneless voice. It took Archie a moment to realize why Gold was even bothering to say this; he remembered Gold’s confusion on that night a month ago, how he called Archie the wrong name. Archie tried for a bright smile, worried that it might be a bit too shaky. Mr. Gold was staring at the floor, his eyes hooded, his face carefully blank.

“Uh, right,” said Archie. He tried not to clear his throat again; the ratio of throat-clearings to awkward silences was currently unbalanced. “Well, I brought you a gift basket. Figured I should ...you know, check up on you.”

Mr. Gold gave him a look that was both sharp and muted -- muted in that Archie had seen that look directed at others and knew exactly how scathing it could be at full blast. For some reason (most likely because Archie had all the emotional armor of a shell-less turtle), Mr. Gold decided to tone it down for him.

Archie plucked a card out of the basket and handed it over. With a careful glance behind him to the front door, Mr. Gold took it and stared down at the illustration. It was a watercolor of a jellyfish with wings; a speech bubble stretched from it. There was no text inside the bubble, just a little pink heart.

“Hm,” said Mr. Gold. Archie interpreted that as a chuckle.

“Yeah, uh, I thought it was cute,” he said. Mr. Gold nodded and flipped the card open, eyes dashing over the words inside. Archie felt his face heat up with belated embarrassment for what he’d written. “That, uh -- I’m not too good with cards and stuff,” he said. “You know, like, what’s the etiquette? Do I write ‘get well,’ or do I write ‘thinking of you,’ or--? So, uh, so I just wrote a poem. Not  _ my _ poem, I mean, it’s-- it’s just one I like, and I thought maybe you’d like it, too, and that’d make you feel better.”

Mr. Gold was staring at him without expression. Archie stared back, trying to pretend he wasn’t blushing, like he could will it away if he just tried hard enough. God, he wished he hadn’t written a poem. Finally, Mr. Gold tilted his head -- a cat eyeing a dangling string -- and gave a strange smile.

“It’s been a month, Dr. Hopper. You act as though I still feel  _ distressed _ ,” Mr. Gold said. Instantly, Archie felt equal parts ashamed and confused. How dare he assume another person’s feelings like this? But also, who the hell  _ wouldn’t _ feel bad?

For nearly a minute, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Gold’s smile faded quickly, replaced by something Archie would have called shame, if he’d bothered to look up from the ground.

“Well,” said Archie, “you know, I mean -- I would feel … not that great. If it happened to me. So, I just figured--”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” said Mr. Gold, looking painfully and uncharacteristically sorry. “You’re right. I do feel bad.” He gestured futilely, making Archie feel a little bit better about his own awkwardness. “Thank you,” said Mr. Gold with some difficulty, “for the gift. The  _ gifts _ . It’s very nice.”

“No problem,” said Archie. “Like I said, I’m just sorry it came so late.”

_ Had _ he said that? Did he mention it? He couldn’t remember. Mr. Gold just shook his head and gripped the card a little harder. Archie hesitated; he still had over an hour till his next appointment, and he wanted to continue the conversation, but he wasn’t sure which road to take.

Road A: “Oh, look, the gift basket  _ also _ includes …”

Road B: “So, about that rape …”

“Is this … all for me?” asked Mr. Gold uncertainly, pointing at the gift basket. Archie blinked.

“What--? Yeah, of course. Of course.” His eyes darted over it, from the candy bars and chocolates he’d shoved in there to the tin of hot cocoa and the big grey teddy bear. “Why?”

Mr. Gold was also staring at the teddy bear. “Just checking,” he said. Archie reached forward, dug through the basket for a bit.

“Do you like movies?” he asked. Mr. Gold’s eyebrows quirked together, giving him a lost expression that Archie would generously not describe as ‘adorable.’

“I guess …?”

“You probably have this already,” said Archie, brandishing the DVD, almost missing Mr. Gold’s muttered ‘probably not.’ “I just figured, you know, everyone should have a feel-good movie to watch, and this is one of my favorites.”

He handed it over and Mr. Gold studied the cover.

“ _ Homecoming Massacre III _ ,” he said. He glanced up at Archie, eyebrows raised.

“It’s wonderful,” said Archie. He put on his best straight face. “Don’t let the title deceive you, Mr. Gold. The acting in this movie is sublime. And the screenplay won three Oscars in three separate years. It’s so good it caused a mass exodus among Hollywood directors, cuz they all knew they’d never measure up.”

He was thoroughly surprised when Mr. Gold gave a soft snort and played along. “Yes, I remember that,” he said. “For two years the only actors we had were Sean Connery and a broomstick with a wig.”

“Yeah, but those movies were excellent,” said Archie. “Minimalist. My favorite.”

“Can’t deny the artistry.”

And now there was a tiny, dimpled smile on Mr. Gold’s face. He was reigning it in, trying to swallow it but not quite succeeding.

“Are you on lunch break?” he asked Archie. Archie nodded, and Mr. Gold set the movie down to maneuver around his kitchen counter, heading for the fridge. “I made spaghetti last night, if you want some,” he said. “It’s vegetarian.”

“Really?” Archie asked. Mr. Gold pulled a Tupperware dish out of the fridge and heated it up without waiting for a proper answer.

“It’s not really normal spaghetti,” said Mr. Gold, “so I quite understand if it’s not to your taste. But it’s all I have to eat in the house.”

‘Not normal’ turned out to mean there was no tomato sauce -- the dish was full of noodles, red peppers, and peanuts, with little vegetables that Archie recognized but could never identify floating around there too. Archie tried to pretend it wasn’t too spicy as he ate.

“I’m not vegetarian,” Mr. Gold told him absently, poking the teddy bear in its soft grey belly. “I just can’t stand meat lately.” He shrugged a little, stared off into space. “I suppose it’s all the same, in the end.”

“Would you be a vegetarian if you  _ did _ like meat?” Archie asked, voice strained from all the peppers. Mr. Gold poured him a glass of water without really looking at him.

“I might be,” he said. “I never made the conscious decision. I was always violent, as a kid, but I could never stand the thought of eating someone’s flesh.”

Archie considered correcting that last bit to ‘some _ thing _ ’ and then figured it all amounted to the same thing, anyway.

“I try, every now and then,” he said, even though he was pretty sure Mr. Gold wasn’t listening. “To be a vegetarian. But I always forget after a while. Order a burger and bite into it before I realize what I’m doing -- do McDonald’s burgers count as meat?”

“Well, they don’t count as vegetables,” said Mr. Gold. He was staring out the window, into his backyard, and a sudden thought popped into Archie’s head.

“Isn’t the pawnshop usually open right now?” he asked, though he was almost 100% sure it was. Mr. Gold’s eyes shuttered and he pushed away from the windowsill, took a seat across from Archie.

“I decided to take the day off,” he said, looking troubled, uncomfortable. “I told Mayor Mills that I was mugged --” He gestured to his face, broke eye contact to stare at the table. “-- but she knows I’m not being entirely honest. The police had to remove my partner from the shop yesterday, and Regina knows we’re … well, our relationship, so ...”

He trailed off with an elegant shrug, started tracing patterns on the tabletop.

“You got a restraining order against him?” Archie asked. Mr. Gold nodded.

“It took some fighting,” he said, and didn’t elaborate. With the knowledge he’d scraped from the police, Archie could guess.

“That’s good,” he said. “I thought you two were still living together. That’s, uh, that’s part of why I came by today, to check up. Wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Mr. Gold gave a single nod. Archie glanced over at the clock on the wall, the frequent pauses in conversation making him leery of the time. 

“I should get going,” he said. He pushed back from the table; Mr. Gold folded his hands and made no move to get up, no offer to walk Archie out. “Thank you for the spaghetti, Mr. Gold. It was nice seeing you.”

Gold didn’t respond; Archie was taking his first steps into the hallway before the other man spoke up.

“Wait,” he said. Archie looked back at him, found Mr. Gold staring at him with his usual blank mask. “I wanted to thank you, for helping me to the clinic. And for not telling me how stupid I was for walking. And for being you, and not somebody -- well, anyone else.”

Archie swallowed hard, feeling inexplicably as though he might cry. “It’s nothing,” he said.

Mr. Gold nodded and stood up to shake Archie’s hand, a moment that was slightly awkward for both of them. He looked away again for just a second, to compose his features into the right expression. He was trying to look friendly, but friendliness was a rusty, foreign feeling.

“If you ever feel the need to watch an awful horror movie,” said Mr. Gold, “my evenings are dreadfully free.”

Archie swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah,” he managed. “I-I’d like that.”

_ Sounds like fun _ , his mind offered as an extra, completely unnecessary sentence, and Archie only just managed to keep from blurting it out. Mr. Gold released his hand. Archie forgot for a long moment that that was his cue to go.

“I’d walk you out,” said Mr. Gold, his eyes suddenly glazed, “but I’m feeling a little dizzy right now. Too much sincerity at once, I suspect.”

“Oh,” said Archie. “OK.”

He figured he could manage to find the door.


	3. Chapter 3

It was barely a week later when Sidney Glass snapped a picture of Gold leaving the walk-in clinic and published it in the Gossip section of the paper. A lurid article ran beneath it, brief and ill-informed, wherein the reporter pondered whether Mr. Gold was seeking help for a cold or if he’d come down with cancer.

Archie had lunch in his office that day, a turkey sandwich he ate over a book of feminist essays. He read non-fiction these days to discourage daydreams; they’d gotten out of hand last year, and when he looked through his old notes he was never sure if the Harry Potter references came from his patients or from his own bored brain.

Despite these preventative measures, he found his head firmly in the clouds for his afternoon sessions. His one o’clock droned on about her psychosomatic stomachaches (honestly, he normally found that interesting) and Archie was wondering if Mr. Gold might have been seeing the doctor because of the bruises he’d had on his neck. His three o’clock expressed embarrassment over Irritable Bowel Syndrome and instead of sympathizing, a completely-distracted Archie accidentally called him by a woman’s name.

He was home for two hours before he stopped daydreaming and actually, fully realized he was home.

_ Shit _ , Archie thought. He checked his watch -- six p.m., on a -- what? A Friday? And he had no plans. When he was a kid, he’d have called up some friends and they’d have -- well, they wouldn’t have partied, but they’d have gone for a nice nature walk or played Search-and-Find video games or something. With a cheap bottle of wine they stole (read: asked permission for and got it) from their parents.

God, he couldn’t even say he  _ used _ to be such a nerd, ‘cause it was Friday night and he was thirty-seven years old and all of those options sounded too hard. Maybe he could just stay home and play Yoshi’s Island.

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and stared at the ceiling.

Or maybe he could watch  _ Homecoming Massacre III _ .

* * *

 

“Oh,” said Mr. Gold when he opened the door. He looked so surprised and wary that for a moment Archie beat himself up over not calling first -- then he remembered that he didn’t have Mr. Gold’s number and his guilt disappeared.

“Hi,” he said. “I, uh -- you up for a movie?”

Mr. Gold blinked at him. “A terrible one?” he asked. He was still dressed impeccably, even though it was Friday night and he hadn’t even opened the pawnshop today.

“It’s only terrible if you’re sober,” Archie told him, and Mr. Gold let him in. The house was dimly lit today, with all the blinds closed and no sound throughout the empty rooms.

“I don’t have much to drink,” Mr. Gold said, leading Archie to the kitchen. He peered into the fridge, shuffled through the drawers. “Some hard cider,” he said. “Cherry vodka. White wine.”

Archie glanced over Mr. Gold’s shoulder into the veritable liquor store that was his fridge.

“Yeah,” he said. “Not a lot.”

Mr. Gold didn’t deign to respond.

“I’ll take a bottle of cider, I guess,” said Archie. “I mean -- how drunk do you wanna get?”

Mr. Gold hesitated, staring down at the bottle in his hand. He turned it from side to side, watching the refrigerator light play off the glass.

“Well, it  _ is _ a Friday,” he said. His eyes flickered up to scan the drink selection. “Let’s take it all out there and get pissed, yeah?”

Archie tried not to grin. He helped Mr. Gold carry the booze one room over, deposited it all on the little coffee table in front of the TV.

“I’m not really a drinker, usually,” Mr. Gold told him as he retreated back into the kitchen, fishing for a bottle opener. He came back with one that was shaped like an anchor, held it up and wrinkled his nose. “This was Frank’s. The drinks, too.”

“Oh,” said Archie. Mr. Gold handed him the bottle opener and knelt before a little cabinet next to the television. It was home to a whopping five DVDs, and Archie could see what they were from his spot on the couch.  _ Flashdance _ ,  _ Hook _ , an Oasis concert DVD and a made-for-TV movie from the show  _ 24 _ . They were all pressed together on the left side of the shelf, and Archie’s gift from last week was lying horizontal beside them. Mr. Gold plucked the disc out of its case and put it in the DVD player.

“I haven’t watched it yet,” he said, settling onto the couch next to Archie. Their thighs touched briefly before Mr. Gold scooted away and the TV lit up with the loud music and lights of a commercial. Or a preview, Archie reminded himself. When they were on DVDs, they were called previews.

“This is honest-to-God my favorite movie,” Archie said. “Like, you should see the collection of shit I have at home. It’s all, you know -- it’s  _ Killer Poodle _ , and _ Zombie Prom Five _ , and stuff like that. It’s awful.”

Mr. Gold hummed into his beer.

“I love it,” Archie said. He took a sip of the hard cider, rolled his eyes up in thought. “ _ The Deadening _ , that’s another good one.”

Mr. Gold pointed the remote at the TV and clicked over and over until the DVD player actually responded. He skipped the commercials. “I thought that was a parody movie on  _ The Simpsons _ ,” he said. “It’s actually real?”

“Nah, I’m probably getting ‘em mixed up with something else.  _ The Were-Nun, _ I’m getting it mixed up with  _ The Were-Nun _ .”

“Mmm.”

The movie started; a pack of terrible teenage actors swaggered toward the camera, spouting lines they must’ve memorized only moments before. Archie glanced over and watched Mr. Gold go still, his attention focused wholly on the screen. He didn’t even seem to notice Archie looking at him.

Mr. Gold had a nice face, Archie decided. It wasn’t what most people would typically describe as handsome -- in fact, it was Archie’s first thought to call Mr. Gold ugly -- but the more you got to know him, the more attractive it seemed. Smooth skin and sharp cheekbones, a defined but narrow jaw. And this late in the evening, it came with a shadow of brown-grey stubble.

The teenage actors’ voices seemed to scatter when Mr. Gold suddenly spoke up.

“If you’re here to try and fuck me, Dr. Hopper, I’m afraid you’ll be very disappointed.”

Archie sat back with a startled laugh. Mr. Gold tracked the movement with his eyes, still friendly but now with a hint of warning. Archie didn’t know what to say. Any denial he came up with sounded hollow, because now that Gold pointed it out, Archie realized that he  _ had _ been treating this somewhat like a date.

“I propose we just drink and watch the movie,” Mr. Gold said with a wrinkled nose, his voice little more than a sarcastic whisper. Archie smiled.

“I’m cool with that.”

They clinked bottles, and as the movie wore on and more and more drinks went into their stomachs, Mr. Gold and Archie both started to drift to the center of the couch, their thighs touching once again. By the midway point, when the first of five teenage couples had been killed, the volume was turned down and the room was filled with the sound of Archie and Gold’s voices -- Archie was loud and slurring and Mr. Gold was soft and melodious.

“So there’s basically three stages of being a Phantom of the Opera fan,” Archie was saying. “In the first stage, you’re like, wow, Erik is so cool and mysterious and sexy. And you’re bored with Christine. Ew, Christine. She’s boring.”

“Mm,” said Gold.

“Then the second stage, that’s when you’re like, actually, this musical isn’t all that great. So you read the original book and you’re like, wow, so many characters I didn’t know about! Fuck Christine altogether, I’m shipping Erik with the Daroga.”

“Alright,” said Gold.

“And then comes Stage Three,” said Archie. “Stage Three is where you realize Erik is literally the worst piece of shit to ever live. And Christine, Christine is actually epic. And she’s had just the  _ worst _ , most  _ terrible _ life. I feel so bad for her. I, oh my God--”

Gold held out a steadying hand. It served mostly as a warning that Archie shouldn’t start crying.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“I’m not drunk!” Archie protested. “ _ You’re _ drunk!”

“I’m barely tipsy.”

“Do the line test, then,” Archie said, though he wasn’t exactly sure what a line test entailed, having never done one himself. Gold stood up very carefully and walked in a perfectly straight (and extremely slow) line. It was a testament to how drunk he was that he agreed to do the test in the first place.

“Look, neither of us can drive home like this,” Archie said, gesturing to himself. Gold stared at him blankly.

“I didn’t--”

“We have to stay  _ here _ ,” Archie insisted. He set his drink down carefully, although it was empty, and then knocked it over when he tried to push it farther from the table’s edge. Gold picked up again while Archie was distracted. “I don’t want to get in a car crash and die.”

Gold considered this and gave a thoughtful nod. “I have a spare room.”

“Perfect,” said Archie. “Perfect. Where is it?”

“Up the stairs. The third door on the left -- it’s got clean sheets, I just did them.”

“Clean sheets,” said Archie, pointing at Gold. “Good. That’s important.”

“Sure.”

Gold stood slowly, working hard to find the right spot for his cane. Archie waited, then followed the other man upstairs; Gold’s house seemed like it was designed to be cluttered, like no amount of cleaning could make it spacious. Archie supposed it was a Victorian thing.

They each stumbled into the wall -- or into one of many little tables and desks -- on their way to Archie’s room. Gold turned the light on and crossed over to a closet, which seemed to be filled with nothing but blankets. He handed Archie a neatly-folded quilt.

“I don’t know if anything I have will fit you,” Gold said. For a moment, Archie was horribly confused; then his drunk brain caught up and he realized Gold was talking about pajamas.

“Oh,” he said.

“I’ll check,” said Gold. “Frank left some of his things here. He was around your size.”

“Okay.”

Archie watched silently as Gold left; then he unfolded the quilt and tossed it onto the bed carelessly, relieved when its corners matched up somewhat with the corners of the bed. He sank down onto the mattress, willing himself to stay awake until Gold came back.

He didn’t have to wait long. Gold entered the room again without making a sound, and Archie didn’t even know the other man was there until he was holding Frank’s pajamas in his hands.

The bottoms were fleece, with marijuana leaves printed on them. The top was a high-quality football hoodie that must have been expensive once, but was now covered in stains.

Archie was slowly forming a picture of Frank in his head, and he couldn’t help but disapprove.

“Thanks,” he said, and Gold nodded, looking uneasy, like he was ashamed on Frank’s behalf for the other man’s poor choice in clothes.

“I’m down the hall, if you need anything,” Gold said. “Or if you wake up and don’t know where you are.”

“In which case, I’m sure I’ll remember where you sleep,” Archie said. A smile flashed over Gold’s face.

“I didn’t invite you to sleep over so you could be snarky.”

Archie grinned. “Fine. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

He sat up on his bed with the pajamas in his hands until Gold left and then laid down for a moment, his heart beating inexplicably fast. He wondered if Gold had ever slept in this bed himself or if it was exclusively for guests. But the latter didn’t seem very likely, because Gold wasn’t exactly a sociable person -- how many guests could he have?

Archie imagined Gold, hurt, wounded, sneaking out of bed with Frank to sleep here. Immediately, Archie felt sickened for even thinking about it -- Gold’s private life wasn’t his to daydream about.

He changed into the pajamas, which were too long and a little too roomy -- Archie tried to imagine how big Frank was in real life and decided, for the sake of his mental comfort, that the other man probably just liked to buy pajamas in too-big sizes. Archie buried himself in the blankets and went to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all i'm 100% making this shit up as I go along. i mean i have a vague outline that i scribbled together at work. literally today. but u know if you have any requests or whatever lemme know cuz that might help. sorry this update took so long/is shorter than the other chapters

Archie woke the next morning to the smell of French toast and orange juice; he didn’t smell bacon, but everybody knew that greasy foods were best for hangovers, so hopefully that was next on Gold’s to-do list. He took a moment to marvel over the fact that Gold cooked -- to his surprise, that skill fit in well with Archie’s mental picture of Gold.

He got out of bed and stumbled down the hall, struggling to find the bathroom. He opened one door and found Gold’s bedroom - somewhat messy and crowded like the rest of the house. Archie glanced around, momentarily forgetting about his urgent need to pee. There were antiques stuffed into every corner, paintings and picture frames covering every inch of the walls.

It managed to seem cozy and impersonal all at once. Archie was just about to leave when he caught sight of something a little incongruous - a Patriots jersey thrown over the back of a chair. Then he realized there was more than one thing out of place in the room; he’d noticed the flatscreen TV across from the bed, but he hadn’t noticed the Xbox hooked up beneath it, or the array of first-person shooter games piled in the corner like dirty clothes.

The more evidence Archie saw of Frank, the more he thought Gold had been dating an overgrown teenager. He backed out of the room finally, closing the door. The bathroom, to his immense relief, was right next door.

It smelled faintly of fancy soap and iodine; Archie did his business and then checked behind the bathroom mirror, raising his eyebrows at the sheer amount of bandages inside. He thought of the gash Frank had left on Gold’s face and wondered if these medical supplies were a new addition or if Gold had always needed them. The thought made him sick.

With a heavy sigh, Archie headed downstairs, letting the smell of breakfast push all nasty thoughts out of his brain. Gold was at the stove, frying up a pan of bacon with his shirt-sleeves rolled up past the elbow.

“Morning,” he said. Archie stifled a sudden yawn.

“Morning,” he repeated. “How long you been up?”

Gold didn’t answer for a moment. “I didn’t sleep,” he said eventually. Archie stared at him in surprise; Gold didn’t  _ look _ like he’d been up all night -- he looked perfectly normal. Which invited the idea that Archie had simply never seen a well-rested Mr. Gold.

“Insomnia?” he asked, cocking his head to get a better look at Gold’s face. He was searching for dark shadows under Gold’s eyes, and sure enough, he found them. Worse still, they felt familiar, like he’d never noticed them before simply because they were always there.

Gold just shrugged. “Too much energy, I guess,” he said. “I finally felt tired at six, but then the sun was up, so …”

Archie glanced at the clock hanging right above the kitchen table -- which, he noticed with some surprise, wasn’t an antique. It was just an old, cheap fold-out, covered in scuffs and water-stains. There were deliberate gouges in the wood, like someone had taken a knife to it and tried to carve a picture, and there were faded, childish drawings done in what appeared to be mascara. Archie wondered at that for a moment before sitting down. If his mind registered the time at all, he quickly forgot it and had to check again: nine o’clock.

“Did you like the movie last night?” he asked, folding his hands over one of the mascara drawings.

“We never finished it,” said Gold. He turned the stove off and eased all the bacon onto one plate, dumping the skillet in the sink. The plate wound up in the middle of the table, between Archie’s seat and Gold’s.

“You didn’t keep watching it after I went to bed?” Archie asked. Gold gave a brief, humorless snort.

“After you went to bed,” he said, “I sat in the living room with all the lights on, waiting for a serial killer to jump out at me.”

Archie’s mouth fell open in horror. “Oh my God,” he said. “Are you serious?”

Gold gave him a tight, embarrassed smile. 

“Oh, God.” Archie covered his face, unable to decide if he felt guilty or amused. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea -- that movie’s so  _ cheesy _ , I thought --”

“It wasn’t scary at all,” Gold assured him, cutting into a slice of French toast. “I’m just a bit … over-sensitive, I suppose.”

Archie shook his head, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He wanted to ask what had affected Gold so badly -- because he doubted it was the serial killer storyline. He was thinking about the near-rape in the beginning and all the sex throughout, wondering why on earth he’d decided to give  _ that _ movie as a gift. He hadn’t remembered all that stuff until they’d watched it last night, and even then he’d been too drunk to realize why it was a bad idea.

“Wipe that look off your face,” said Gold, snapping Archie out of his thoughts. “You look like the world’s guiltiest defendant.”

“Really?” Archie gave a weak smile. “Is that better?”

“No,” said Gold. Archie let out a genuine laugh and Gold responded with a faintly amused look, which was more than Archie hoped for. They ate in silence for a minute; one night of drunken laughter wasn’t enough to cure Archie of his fascination with Gold’s every movement. He watched sneakily, marveling at the tiny bites Gold took, the long pauses between each one. By the time Archie finished his plate, Gold still had most of it to go. 

“I have a meeting soon,” Gold said suddenly, his tone apologetic. Archie opened his mouth and then closed it again, surprised by the abrupt change of topic.

“I -- you want me to --?” he started.

“Go,” Gold finished. “Yes.”

He didn’t sound apologetic anymore - just matter-of-fact. Archie’s mind raced backward over the morning’s events, trying to figure out where things had gone wrong. Why would Gold even bother making breakfast if he just wanted to kick Archie out as soon as possible? Unless he’d been making breakfast for himself …. But that wasn’t possible. Archie’s eyes swept over Gold’s barely-touched plate, then took in the huge portions Gold had made of each food. It was obvious he wasn’t preparing the meal for himself alone.

But again, why kick Archie out?

Maybe he really did have a meeting. 

Archie pushed back from the table, trying to keep his face blank. Gold wasn’t even looking at him; his hands were folded and he was staring down at the table, looking bored.

“Okay,” said Archie awkwardly. “I’ll see you later, then?”

Gold didn’t answer. Not even a shrug. Archie walked out of the house and stopped on the doorstep, stunned by the sunlight and Gold’s sudden rejection. What the hell had just happened? They’d had fun last night, right? Had he done something wrong by staying over? No -- it was Gold’s own fault,  _ he _ was the one who suggested they get drunk. So it couldn’t be  _ that _ .

Archie got into his car in a daze. The keys were still in the ignition -- something he could get away with in his neighborhood, he thought, but probably wasn’t a good idea when he was surrounded by mansions that got robbed on the daily. As he started the car, he glanced down and froze, suddenly remembering what he was wearing.

Frank’s pajamas. 

Archie glanced back up at Gold’s house. He knew exactly where his clothes were -- draped over the chair in Gold’s spare bedroom. Should he go back and get them now?

Archie gnawed his bottom lip for a moment, then eventually put the car in reverse and backed out of Gold’s driveway. He’d come back later; it would be a good excuse to see Gold again, and maybe find out what happened today.


	5. Chapter 5

“Ruby?”

She jumped at the sound of Archie’s voice, nearly dropping her bad and whirling away from the front door of the diner. It was dark and empty inside; Archie had caught her while she was locking up.

“Archie?” she said, relaxing a little when she recognized him. “You scared the piss out of me. What’s up?”

Archie hesitated, trying to think of the right way to say what he wanted to say. Ruby came closer as he thought about it, taking small, slow steps.

“I-I was wondering if I could talk to you,” he said, “and Dr. Whale, if you have his number. And he’s free.”

Ruby furrowed her eyebrows. She dug into her purse for a moment, pulling out a cell phone in a sparkling red case. Archie watched her unlock it and start typing.

“What did you want to talk about?” Ruby asked, glancing up. Archie scratched his forehead; he had to find a non-creepy way to say this.

“I, uh - I was wondering if - well, if you knew anything about … Mr. Gold’s boyfriend,” Archie admitted. Ruby’s eyebrows shot up; she didn’t even check her phone when it dinged. 

“Gold has a boyfriend?” she asked.

Well, this was going to be pointless.

“Yeah,” Archie said. “I mean, an ex-boyfriend. But … well, I know you and Whale both -- you were both at Pride that year, when I --”

Ruby grinned, her eyes flashing. “Oh, I remember,” she said. “The year you were dating that guy with the leather s--”

“Well,” said Archie loudly. “Well, the point is, I figured if anyone knew anything about him, it would be you and Whale.”

“Why do you want information on him?” Ruby asked, cocking her head. A slow smile was spreading over her face. “You got a crush on Gold?”

Archie could feel his cheeks heating up. “N-no,” he said. “But - I just - I want to - to  _ help _ him, Gold is in - a very,  _ very _ bad place right now, so --”

Ruby gave him a fake pout, making Archie blush even worse. “Whale’s on his way,” she said. “I mentioned gossip and he dropped everything.”

Archie sighed, glad that she’d taken the heat off him. They chatted about small nothings while they waited - about Ruby’s new girlfriend, about Whale’s recent adventure in BDSM and polyamory - until Whale finally showed up, panting a little with how fast he’d run.

“Archie,” Whale huffed. “I heard - _hah_ \- Gold has - _hah_ \- a boyfriend?”

Archie shook his head, wearing a painful smile. “Ex,” he said. “Frank-something. I was wondering if you guys knew anything --?”

Whale rubbed his hands together to warm them and made eye contact with Ruby. They seemed to be having a private, silent conversation.

“What’s he like?” asked Ruby. Archie hesitated for a moment.

“I, uh - I’ve never actually met him,” he said. “But he’s the type of guy who wears really expensive Patriots stuff and gets stains all over ‘em. And his pajama pants have weed on them. And he owns like every Call of Duty game and drinks a lot of beer.”

Ruby and Whale looked at each other again; this time they were smirking.

“You’ve never actually met him but you know what his pajama pants look like?” Whale asked. Archie’s ears started burning.

“It’s not like that,” he said. “Just tell me if you know him or not.”

Ruby scoffed. “I mean, it’s not like we have much to go on,” she said. “I know one gay guy named Frank who’s a bit of a dick, but I can’t even tell you his last name, so …”

“Frank from Club 35?” Whale asked, his lips twitching. Ruby nodded, and Archie felt a pang of dismay when Whale gave an unamused snort. “Jesus. Can you imagine? I mean, if  _ anyone _ could handle him, it would be Gold, but …”

“Is he big?” Archie asked, earning two curious looks. He held a hand up in front of his face. “Like my height? Or bigger, and kinda … uh, either fat or really buff?”

Neither person answered for a moment. Finally, Whale shrugged.

“Big,” he said. “Not really fat  _ or _ buff. Just big.”

“Like construction workers who never stop drinking,” Ruby added. “So there’s lots of muscle, but it’s covered in at least, like, two layers of fat.”

“Kinda like you,” said Whale, “but less flabby.”

“Okay. Ouch.” Archie shook his head. “You said if anyone could handle him, it would be Gold…?”

“Frank’s a dick,” Ruby said matter-of-factly.

“But Gold’s an even bigger dick,” said Whale. “Figuratively speaking, I think. I mean, Frank’s over six foot, but anything is possible --”

“So like, if anyone could stand to date Frank,” Ruby said, “it would be Gold. He’s like the only person I wouldn’t be worried about. You know? Cuz I don't think he'd take shit from anyone.”

“Well, how is Frank a dick?” Archie asked, growing increasingly frustrated with the conversation. Ruby shoved her hands in her pocket and looked up at the stars, mulling it over. Whale just stroked his chin.

“Well,” he said eventually, “I know one time I saw him try to roofie a guy who kept turning him down.”

Ruby nodded. “Yeah, I’ve seen that, too.”

“He gets turned down a lot?” Archie asked. Ruby barked out a laugh.

“Well, honestly, he’s not that bad-looking. It’s just most people, if they talk to him for more than thirty seconds, feel the overwhelming need to run.”

“He’s way too judgmental,” Whale said quickly. “One of those guys who tries to act as straight as possible and hates anyone who doesn’t. Super vanilla, too.”

“Yeah,” said Ruby contemplatively. “That’s true - the judgmental part. Now that you mention it, it’s kinda weird that he would get with Gold. Cuz isn’t Gold bi?”

Archie sputtered. “I - I don’t --”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Whale. He leaned over toward Archie and said, with an air of confidentiality, “Frank hates bi people. He thinks they’re untrustworthy.”

“Plus, Gold isn’t exactly the pinnacle of straightness,” Ruby pointed out. “I swear to God, ninety percent of his shirts are some shade of pink or purple. I just don’t really see him getting with Frank. Like, what would they even talk about?”

“Dudes don’t talk,” Whale said confidently. “We get busy.”

Archie started stammering in protest. Ruby threw him a wink.

“Okay, I’m sure Gold does more than fuck,” she said. “I bet he just loves to, you know, recite poetry and talk about his feelings.”

“Wait,” said Whale, looking from Ruby’s smirk to Archie’s burning face, “do you have a crush on Gold? Is that what this is about?”

Archie groaned. “I should’ve talked to anyone except you two,” he said. 

* * *

Archie’s plan to return to Gold’s house with the excuse of gathering his clothes was thoroughly ruined when he came home the next day and found his clothes washed, folded, wrapped in plastic, and hanging from his porch light. For a moment, Archie couldn't believe his eyes; he examined the clothes carefully, hoping something would be missing, but it was all there.

With a sigh, Archie gathered up his clothes and headed inside.

* * *

Archie was sitting on the couch with the TV turned to some mindless reality show, the volume on low. There was a thin book of poetry in his lap but he just couldn’t concentrate on it; he was pretty sure he’d read the same poem three times in a row now, and he still wasn’t sure what it said. Balanced on his thigh was a notebook, opened optimistically to a blank page. Archie had hoped inspiration of some sort would strike him - he was great at making shitty poems and shittier drawings - but so far he could just stare at the paper, lost in thought.

He was trying to remember if he’d ever seen Gold and Frank together in public. There was an enormous bald man Gold hung around with sometimes, but Archie was fairly certain that guy was just a lackey. He wanted to know if Frank was still in Storybrooke or if he’d moved back to -- well, presumably to Lewiston, because that was where Ruby and Whale went when they went clubbing. He’d just feel better if he knew what Frank looked like, or what his last name was.

With a sigh, Archie set the notebook and the poetry collection aside and heaved himself off the couch, his head filled with vague thoughts of going to the kitchen and making something to eat. It was blisteringly cold outside - he was thinking chicken noodle soup. But before he could even start in that direction, the doorbell rang.

Archie’s eyebrows went up. He couldn’t recall ordering takeout from anywhere; he hurried over and opened the door, and then froze completely, mouth falling open.

It was Gold, but it took Archie what felt like ages to recognize him. There was a dark bruise spreading across his cheek and a raw-looking scrape under his right eye; his nose was bleeding, and it was possible his lip was, too - Archie couldn’t quite tell. And once again, Gold was dressed casually - in jeans and a thick, tan sweater with tiny blood spots on the collar.

Archie stepped back wordlessly, gesturing for Gold to come in. He was glad that this time Gold at least wasn’t barefoot; he kicked off the snow caked to his soles and paused in the doorway to take off his boots, dropping them clumsily to the floor. Gold’s nose and fingers were red from the cold; there were snowflakes melting in his hair.

“You really ought to be wearing a coat,” Archie murmured. Gold sniffed loudly and wiped his nose, looking somewhat surprised when he saw the blood on his fingers. He touched the bridge of his nose gingerly and winced. Archie watched him for a moment, waiting to see if Gold had anything to say.

It appeared not.

“Was it Frank again?” Archie asked. Gold scoffed.

“That’s a rude question,” he said. His voice was hoarse and creaky; Gold pressed a hand to his throat and groaned. “Oh, God,” he said. “Laryngitis. Again.”

Archie cocked an eyebrow but made no comment. He led Gold to the living room and gestured for him to sit; Gold plopped down on the couch and immediately curled up there, still shivering from the cold outside. Archie reached over him to grab a folded-up throw blanket and handed it to Gold.

Archie didn’t ask about what happened again; he moved busily between the living room and the kitchen, gathering tissues first, then putting on tea, then fetching the first aid kit. When he returned for the last time, pressing a warm mug into Gold’s hands, Gold’s nose had finally stopped bleeding.

Archie sat down beside him, their shoulders touching, and started rooting through the first aid kit. He found a bottle of Neosporin and handed it to Gold, who just looked at it for a moment before applying it to the scrape below his eye.

“I don’t really have anything for bruises or nosebleeds,” Archie said apologetically. Gold shrugged.

“It’s fine,” he said. He was staring at the TV, but his eyes were far away. He turned the mug this way and that in his hands without taking a single sip, being mindful of the cut on his lip. 

Archie was more focused on the TV than on anything else when Gold suddenly said, 

“My meeting didn’t go well.”

Archie looked over at him; Gold looked back, his face blank.

“Yeah?” said Archie carefully.

“Yeah,” said Gold. He rotated the cup in his hands again, glanced at the TV, and then looked back at Archie. “I met with DA Spencer. Charges were dropped against my client.”

“He was pissed?” Archie asked. Gold took a careful drink of tea.

“Not at first,” he said, tone even. “But then I said  _ Homecoming Massacre III _ was the best in the series, and he said the original couldn’t be beat, and a fistfight ensued.”

Archie choked - a fit of coughing turned to shocked laughter, and when he looked up again, there was a smile playing ‘round Gold’s lips. 

“That’s bullshit,” Archie said. “The first movie in a horror series is always the worst.”

“I agree,” said Gold. “Albert Spencer does not.”

Archie shook his head, still grinning. His eyes jumped from Gold to the TV to his DVD collection, and then back to Gold, who was watching him knowingly.

“Okay,” Archie said. “ _ Night of the Demons II _ or  _ III _ ?”

Gold considered it. “Two,” he said.

"Excellent choice," Archie said. "The demonic lipstick scene is pure gold."

* * *

It was well past midnight when they finished the movie, and Gold’s head was lolling. He had abandoned his cup of tea two hours earlier and started drinking water instead, downing five bottles of it in quick succession. He’d been noticeably drowsy ever since finishing the fifth.

When the credits rolled, Archie got up and turned the TV off, stretching his back. He glanced at his watch, then looked back at the couch, where Gold was watching him with sleepy eyes.

“Can I stay here?” Gold murmured. Archie’s heart twisted painfully; he nodded, unable to speak for a moment.

“I don’t have a guest bedroom,” he said. Gold gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“We can share,” he said. Archie swallowed a nervous smile and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. Then, unconvincingly, “Like a sleepover. Like kids.”

Gold didn’t say anything.

“Completely innocent,” Archie said. Gold sighed.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Right. Sorry.”

He helped Gold up and pointed him toward the bedroom upstairs. Archie stayed behind, turning off lights and blowing out candles - he was stalling, really. One voice in his head was screaming with happiness and another was babbling anxiously about what Frank would do if he found out.

_ They’re not together anymore _ , Archie reminded himself. An image of Gold from hours earlier, standing on Archie’s doorstep and bleeding, came to mind. Archie forced it away.

With nothing left to do, Archie trudged up the stairs, knocking briefly on his own door before entering. Gold was in the middle of changing into a pair of Archie’s pajama pants and glanced up, but didn’t seem embarrassed to be caught in his boxers. Archie turned red and faced the other way.

“Sorry,” he said. Gold didn’t respond; a few seconds later, Archie heard the blankets being moved and looked back - Gold was already in bed, still wearing his sweater, with his face pressed into one of Archie’s many pillows.

“This is really soft,” Gold said, his voice muffled and still hoarse.

“Yeah,” said Archie. He peeled off his clothes and traded them for a t-shirt and a pair of sweats.

“I never know how to pick bedding,” Gold said, rolling over to face Archie. The bruises on his face stood out in sharp contrast to Archie’s sheets. 

"It's just Walmart pillows," Archie said. "They were like six dollars."

Gold hummed, his eyes fixed on Archie. “Did you have a bed when you were a kid?” he asked.

Archie blinked, taken aback by the question. “Uh, no, actually,” he said. “I, uh - we lived in a trailer. There was only one bedroom. I slept on the couch.”

Gold nodded, not looking surprised. He scooted over as Archie got into bed, and Archie sent a mental thank you to his past self for buying a bed big enough for two.

“Did  _ you  _ have a bed?” Archie asked. 

“Sometimes,” Gold said. “If I shared.”

“You have brothers and sisters?” Archie guessed. He turned off the bedside lamp and settled down onto his pillow.

“No,” said Gold. “With my dad, if he let me. Sometimes he didn’t.”

“Oh. So then you slept on the couch?”

Gold just shrugged. He started to speak and then stopped, his voice dwindling away to a wheeze by the third word. He coughed, cleared his throat, and said, “Shite,” weakly. It was possible he tried to speak again - Archie heard a few quiet sounds that might have been attempts - but eventually he just rolled over, facing the other way.

“Goodnight,” Archie said.

Gold just sighed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus and also for the super short chapter. My laptop broke somewhere around the same time I went on vacation in December and I just stopped writing entirely for a few months. Let me know if there's anything y'all wanna see in this story; I have an outline but if I get a good suggestion I'll work it in.

The knock at Archie’s office door was more than a little unexpected -- he didn’t have anymore appointments today. Pongo looked up from his bed in the corner, ears cocked, and Archie glanced at him briefly before crossing the room to open the door.

Gold stood outside.

“Gold?” Archie asked, blinking. 

“Hey,” said Gold. It had been two weeks, but his voice was still hoarse and barely audible. He shifted and Archie noticed the small stack of books in his hands. Gold followed Archie’s gaze and held the books out suddenly. “I got these for you,” he said. “I was at the bookstore and thought of you, so ...:”

Archie took the books and glanced through them, his eyebrows raised.  _ Bastard Out of Carolina, The Color Purple,  _ and  _ Mrs. Dalloway. _

“Gold,” said Archie slowly, trying to piece all the evidence into something that made sense. “Why did you get me a bunch of lesbian books?”

Gold opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, looking down at the books with furrowed eyebrows. Archie watched as Gold’s expression turned seamlessly from one of indignation to defeat. “They  _ are  _ all lesbian books,” he breathed.

“I mean …” Archie held the books out awkwardly, trying to display all three covers at once, “if I had to choose between straight books and lesbian books, the lesbians are obvious winners, but --”

“I was just looking for books you might like,” said Gold, clearly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean--”

“It’s fine, really,” Archie said. “It’s not a problem. They’re classics -- I’m sure I’ll love them.”

He gave Gold a carefully-curated smile, designed to show how genuine he was being without giving away that he kind of hated Virginia Woolf. Gold gave him a look that Archie couldn’t quite read, but it was easy to imagine that it meant something like “I know you’re lying to me.”

Archie put the books back into a neat pile and held them just over the bulge of his belly, letting his smile dim a little.

“So what brings you here?” he asked. Gold’s posture changed instantly; his shoulders tensed and he looked down at his shoes, face going blank. Archie tried not to let it bother him. “We haven’t talked since the, uh … since you slept over.”

_ Since you woke up with my dick pressed into your back, _ Archie thought. He felt a surge of guilt, a feeling with which he’d become intimately familiar in the weeks since he last saw Gold.

“I don’t know,” said Gold, still avoiding eye contact. “I just felt … guilty.”

Archie’s eyebrows flew up. “ _ You _ felt guilty?” he said. Gold suddenly looked miserable.

“I know,” he said, with just a hint of bitterness. “Not typical of a landlord. Or a lawyer.”

“No, no,” said Archie quickly. He automatically started to gesture as he spoke and nearly dropped all three books. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine,” said Gold. He struggled for words for a moment, and Archie decided he was willing to wait and see what Gold had to say. But Gold just kept struggling with words, and eventually Archie took pity on him.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said. “Why don’t you come in?”

A shadow passed over Gold’s face. “Oh,” he said. “Er…”

“You don’t have to,” Archie said quickly, holding the books in front of his belly again. “I just -- I was just thinking --”

“Archie,” said Gold, sounding like Archie’s name alone caused him pain.

“No, really,” said Archie, turning sideways and starting to back away. “I--”

Gold’s hand touched his shoulder, so gentle Archie could barely feel it. He didn’t realize that Gold was guiding him until he was completely turned around, heading down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Gold--” Archie said.

“Sit,” said Gold. He pushed Archie toward the kitchen table and Archie sank down on one of the chairs obediently. As an afterthought, he set the books on the table, lining up their edges as Gold sat down across from him. “Archie,” said Gold. He cut himself off, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Archie’s stomach fluttered; whatever was coming, it was big. He could feel it.

Slowly, Gold opened his eyes and looked directly at Archie.

“Would you like to come over and watch  _ Chopping Mall _ ?” he asked.

Archie’s breath caught.

“I would be delighted,” he said. 


End file.
